It chanced at length, this goodly wight,
Who stoutly fought the Christian fight,

Elsewhere received a louder call;

What though the stipend was a trifle more?
To one who placed on wealth so little store,
This had no weight, you know, at all!
'Twas not the cash; oh, no;
But 'twas "the Lord commanded;
And though 'twas hard to go away,
Should he refuse the Lord t' obey,
And be a faithless servant branded?
No, sure; so he must go.

The parting Sabbath now arrived,
And all his simple flock contrived
To hear their priest's farewell.
He plied them long in righteous strain,
Bade them from darling sins refrain,
And in sweet concord dwell;

To hate the world, in holy ways be bold,
And shun the soul's seducer, glittering gold.

The service o'er,
Before the door

The parish gentry gathered 'round.
Smiling, the good man came among them,
Seized on their offered hands, and wrung them.
"A saint on earth!" the grannies cried,
Then rolled their eye-balls up, and sighed,

And dropped their farewell curtsies to the ground.
Behind the rest,

To bid the priest good-bye,

In nature's sooty jacket drest,

Old Cæsar came-a wag, and mighty sly.

Bowing, the stick of ebony began

A confab with the gold-despising man: "Ah, how good massa parson do?

I hope he find him berry well.” "Well, Cæsar, well; and how do you?" "Ah, massa, Cæsar hardly tell;

Dis good long twenty year

Wid you he worship here,

And now he sorry from your flock you go."
"Well, honest Cæsar, it must e'en be so;

I'm sorry, too,

That I am forced away;

But, then, you know, 't would never do,
The Lord's loud call for me to disobey.

"Who, massa, who, you say?
De Lord call you away?

Massa, how many pound a year

Do people pay for preaching here?"

"Two hundred."

'Toder place gib any more?"

I think they offer four."

"Ah, massa, maybe 't is de Lord who call,

But, don't you think more loud you let him bawl,—
Aye, call and call till all be blue,

'Fore you come back from four to two?

De Lord he hollo till he dumb

Fore massa parson ever come."

CLXXXVIII.-FASHIONABLE PIANO MUSIC.

I DON'T like your chopped music any way. That woman (she had more sense in her little finger than forty medical societies), Florence Nightingale, says that the music you pour out is good for sick folks, and the music you pound out is n't. Not that exactly, but something like it. I have been to hear some music-pounding. It was a young woman, with as many white muslin flounces round her as the planet Saturn had rings, that did it. She gave the music-stool a twirl or two, and fluffed down on to it like a whirl of soap-suds in a hand-basin. Then she pushed up her cuffs as if she was going to fight for the champion's belt. Then she worked her wrists and her hands, to limber 'em, I suppose, and spread out her fingers till they looked as if they would pretty

much cover the key-board, from the growling end to the little squeaky one. Then those two hands of hers made a jump at the keys as if they were a couple of tigers coming down on a flock of black and white sheep, and the piano gave a great howl as if its tail had been trod on. Dead stop, so still you could hear your hair growing. Then another jump, and another howl, as if the piano had two tails and you had trod on both of them at once, and then a grand clatter and scramble and string of jumps, up and down, back and forward, one hand over the other, like a stampede of rats and mice more than like any thing I call music. I like to hear a woman sing, and I like to hear a fiddle sing, but those noises they hammer out of those wood and ivory anvils-do n't talk to me, I know the difference between a bull-frog and a wood-thrush.

- Oliver Wendell Holmes.

CLXXXIX.-THE GHOST.

'Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,

A short, round-favored, merry

Old soldier of the Revolutionary

War,

Was wedded to

A most abominable shrew.

The temper, sir, of Shakespeare's Catharine
Could no more be compared with hers,

Than mine

With Lucifer's.

Her eyes were like a weasel's; she had a harsh

Face, like a cranberry marsh,

All spread

With spots of white and red;

Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,

And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.
The appellation of this lovely dame
Was Nancy; don't forget the name.

Her brother David was a tall,

Good-looking chap, and that was all;
One of your great, big nothings, as we say
Here in New Jersey, picking up old jokes,
And cracking them on other folks.
Well, David undertook one night to play
The ghost, and frighten Abel, who,

He knew,

Would be returning from a journey through
A grove of forest wood

That stood

Below

The house some distance, half a mile, or so.

With a long taper
Cap of white paper,
Just made to cover

A wig, nearly as large over

As a corn-basket, and a sheet

With both ends made to meet

Across his breast

(The way in which ghosts are always dressed),

He took

His station near

A huge oak-tree,

Whence he could overlook

The road and see

Whatever might appear.

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel

Had left the table

Of an inn, where he had made a halt,

With horse and wagon,

To taste a flagon

Of malt

Liquor, and so forth, which, being done

He went on,

Caring no more for twenty ghosts,

Than if they were so many posts.

David was nearly tired of waiting,
His patience was abating;

At length, he heard the careless tones

Of his kinsman's voice,

And then the noise

Of wagon-wheels among the stones.
Abel was quite elated, and was roaring
With all his might, and pouring

Out, in great confusion,

Scraps of old songs made in "the Revolution."

His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton;

And jovially he went on,

Scaring the whip-po-wills among the trees
With rhymes like these: (Sings.)

"See the Yankees

Leave the hill,

With baggernetts declining,

With looped-down hats

And rusty guns,

And leather aprons shining.

"See the Yankees-Whoa! Why, what is that?^

Said Abel, staring like a cat,

As, slowly, on the fearful figure strode

Into the middle of the road.

"My conscience, what a suit of clothes!

Some crazy fellow, I suppose.

Hallo! friend, what's your name? by the powers of gin,

That's a strange dress to travel in."

"Be silent, Abel; for I now have come

To read your doom;

Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.

I am a spirit."-"I suppose you are;

But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why:

Here is a fact which you can not deny;

All spirits must be either good

Or bad; that's understood.

And be you good or evil, I am sure

That I'm secure.